allAfrica.com: Nigeria: He Died After All (Page 1 of 1)

Goose pimples came over my skin. I felt my blood run cold. My heart skipped some beats at the realisation that Samson's body was covered with rashes. I had gone to visit him at home a number of times, but I never observed what his skin was like, until that fateful Sunday.

He was said to be suffering from pile which had been operated on. The wound refused to heal and as such, his relations decided to build many stories around his ailment which had become off and on. He had been taken to the University Teaching Hospital, Jos, for treatment, and all the doctors could do was to be diplomatic just like their colonisers, the British. All attempts made to cure his ailment proved abortive until a witch doctor volunteered to treat him.

The witch doctor had used a calabash filled with water in his analysis of Samson's ailment. He had informed Samson's family that his past girl friend was responsible for the illness. As he looked at the water in the calabash, he told them about how she had felt cheated when he dumped her for another. He told them that she had gone to seek for vengeance and in the process of getting her pound of flesh, an invisible charm had been buried in his stomach which was responsible for this untold hardship.

Samson was brought to Kaduna by his uncle for further treatment. The future looked bright since the cause of his illness had been established and a cure had been guaranteed. He was brought to see the witch doctor that lived in the remotest part of the city.

After some consultation which lasted for some days, Samson was given some herbs and mixed concoctions which were said would speed up his recovery. He took his medicines religiously but the ailment continued to get worse each passing day. He had begun to loose appetite for food. He complained about his throat which seemed to irritate him each time he swallowed any food substance. He had emaciated and could be said to have looked wizened. I observed that his skin had begun to have some folds just like that of senior citizens. I could count his ribs and his once chubby cheeks had flattened and had dropped. Infact, he had become a bag of bones.

Samson could no longer help himself. He had become a liability to his sister who lived with his uncle. She had to spread a mat at the veranda of their house every morning so that her sick brother could lie on it. He needed the natural scenery of nature to get better, even if not physically, it was going to help him psychologically. Samson could no longer help himself to the toilet. Each time he wanted to ease himself and made attempts to get up, the sickness made him feel weaker. Due to his inability to control his bladder because of the ailment, feaces poured down just like that of a toddler. I could see that this was intolerable for Samson who could hardly believe that such was happening to him. There were times when I saw tears run down his face. There were also times when he looked too distant and did not seem to know what was happening around him, except when he was brought back to consciousness. That was usually when his name had been called. I pitied him. I wished I could say "you are healed" and immediately, he would go back to his former self. But this was not possible. What I could see was reality staring glaringly at me in the face.

Samson had contacted the dreaded HIV virus which had developed to full flown AIDS.

I observed that his cutlery sets, plates and other things which were meant to be used by all members of the family were separated and kept in isolation. Nobody wanted to touch him voluntarily. Those who came to sympathise with him always stood at a distance except some pastors who prayed for him and shook his hand. He stayed with members of his extended family and always had people he could talk to and yet he felt alone. His friends and colleagues who knew him too well were no where to be found to give him hope. Even his father who came from the village to see him was not helping matters. He always kept a stool very close to his son's mat and wept at the mystery of the ailment that had ravaged the entire body of his only son. Nobody could openly tell him the truth about Samson's ailments. The truth was going to kill him.

As his condition continued to deteriorate, his uncle decided to take him to the village against his wish. In the village, he was dreaded like a plague. Everyone avoided him and his sickness was spoken of in parables. His mother who could not bear to see her son being treated like an outcast, wept uncontrollably each time it dawned on her that her only son will never find a cure to his sickness. At night, on a cold Tuesday, the cold hands of death came and stole his soul.

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